


That ink may character

by Petra



Category: DCU - Comicverse, Nightwing - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-14
Updated: 2007-03-14
Packaged: 2017-10-11 18:42:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/115694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petra/pseuds/Petra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dick scopes the various tattoo parlors around the 'haven for weeks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That ink may character

**Author's Note:**

> Title reference: [Reference](http://www.bartleby.com/70/50108.html>)  
> Thanks to **katarik** for encouraging me and various other people for helping me refine this concept over the last several months. Some harsh language, no sexual content.

Dick scopes the various tattoo parlors around the 'haven for weeks before he picks the one that lives at the best intersection of clean and most likely to send minors packing without that Taz they've been wanting.

"From Gotham?" the artist says when he explains what he wants and where. The guy's hands are huge, callused, and perfectly steady. Just what your discerning customer wants.

"Grew up there," Dick says, though he can feel his accent slipping homeward, toward the broader, gentler vowels people around the circus used.

"That'll fuck you up but good."

Dick laughs. "Yeah, sure did."

"And you wanted, what, a quarter-inch thing?" The guy jerks his chin toward the wall of flash -- all the ugly, bright, pre-packaged tripe anybody could ever want to stick on their bodies forever -- and gives Dick a wink over his glasses. "Good to hear somebody's smarter than to want that stuff. Sure, I can do you your fake mole."

He's quick with a pen -- he must've done the symbol ten thousand times, judging by the number of bats of various sizes and colors on the wall -- and, if Dick's not flattering himself, there's a Nightwing-rang too.

But the teeny thing on the scratch pad is just the right size, and the price is more than fair considering that it may only take five, ten minutes, but they've still got to fire up the equipment for it.

"And you wanted this --"

Dick's good at keeping a straight face, these days. The 'haven beat it into him even more than Gotham did.

The artist, not so much. He waggles his eyebrows when Dick explains. "Tailbones sting like a bitch, tough guy. It'd be easier if you just wanted it on your ass."

Dick shrugs. "I'll deal."

He's got a gold tooth in his crooked grin. So it must pay decently, poking ink into people's skin. "You'd better."

He whistles through that grin when Dick pulls his shirt up to bare the skin in question. "Damn, yeah, you can take this."

A swipe of alcohol, a quick trace with a marker so fine it's just a whisker of cold, and a bunch of mirrors angled just so, so he can say, "That looks fine, yeah."

Then the sting.

Dick reminds himself to hiss at the pain, the second time it hits. There's no benefit in being too hardcore.

"You're doing great," the guy says, and it's over a few deep breaths later.

All except the stinging.

"There you go. Keep the band-aid on for a day or so, and don't wash it 'til Wednesday." The artist thumps him on the shoulder with his heavy, deft hand and helps Dick up.

Dick hands the cash over, plus a decent tip, and says, "Thanks."

"Hey, no sweat. You were the easiest guy all day."

The aftereffects make patrol moderately uncomfortable for a few days, but he's got just what he wanted.

*

It's just as well he doesn't think to check in on the parlor again. The other employees were pretty confused when Benny showed up, day after Dick did, with a pounding headache and his steady-as-a-rock hands shaking, saying he'd be out for a while after that tummy bug he had yesterday.


End file.
